Grow Up to Your Ruin
by Alipeeps
Summary: Shep-whumpy episode tag to episode 5x02 - The Seed. MAJOR SPOILERS FOR THE SEED! Now complete.
1. Chapter 1

_Missing scene tag fic to episode 5x02 - The Seed, exploring the lovely Shep whump in more detail! Medical stuff is based on my rough knowledge and what I can research on the internet so please forgive any inaccuracies. :) All comments and feedback, as ever, gratefully received._

_A/N: This fic is 3 chapters in total, with the 3rd chapter almost complete. Will be posting one chapter a day for next 3 days._

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"_Destroy the seed of evil, or it will grow up to your ruin."_

"I don't feel anything. I don't even think that…"

He never got to finish the sentence because right then a strange shiver ran through him and his muscles tensed involuntarily, making him grimace and hunch forward. It was an odd feeling, not quite painful but definitely uncomfortable, and the sensation of not being able to control his own body was downright disconcerting.

He was aware of Ronon calling for Beckett as a second, stronger tremor tightened his muscles and okay, that one did rather hurt a bit. The sensation eased for a second and he relaxed back against the pillow with a gasp. He felt kinda flushed and his voice came out a little rough as he told Beckett, "I think these restraints are a good idea." His body was still flexing and tensing minutely as he spoke and he set his jaw with a pained grunt, struggling for control of his own body… but it was a losing battle.

He scrunched his eyes shut as a painful spasm abruptly made his body try to fold in half. His jaw clenched so hard that his teeth ached and he was aware of his body arching uncontrollably, muscles flexing and straining, the restraints the only thing holding him in place.

"It's working," he heard Beckett say and he wanted to ask if this was what Beckett had expected, if this was normal, but he couldn't loosen his jaw, couldn't make a sound other than a strangled grunt as his body writhed and twisted helplessly. He was burning up suddenly, a flush of heat washing over his entire body, making his skin itch. The restraints dug into his wrists as he pulled helplessly against them.

He was absurdly aware of the bulky shape of the pulse-ox meter digging into his palm as his hands clenched involuntarily and he could hear an odd rattling noise as his entire body began to shake helplessly. It was getting harder to breathe and he found himself panting rapidly through gritted teeth, his chest feeling tight and painful. He could feel his face pulling into a grimace as every muscle in his body tensed uncontrollably. Dark flashes were going off behind his eyes and a distant roaring in his ears threatened to drown out the steadily increasing beep of the heart monitor.

"Colonel Sheppard?" A far-off voice was calling his name but he couldn't answer, couldn't think beyond the pain and the awful feeling of his body jerking and shaking, out of his control. The spasming became more violent, forcing a muffled groan out between his tightly gritted teeth, and his arms and legs tensed viciously, straining against the restraints, pulling his shoulders up from the bed.

Somewhere very far away someone murmured, "Jesus!" in a shocked voice. The beeps and rattling noises picked up their pace.

The thick leather straps were digging painfully into his flesh but he couldn't stop, couldn't control the shaking and jerking of his body. His stomach muscles tensed painfully, pulling his legs up, restraints pulling even tighter against the tops of his boots, and then strong hands were gripping one arm and one leg, pressing them down against the bed, holding him in place as he shook helplessly.

His heart was hammering in his chest, racing uncontrollably, and his head was beginning to swim dizzily. He was vaguely aware of voices nearby but they were muffled and distorted. The hands pressed him down almost painfully hard onto the bed but they couldn't hold him still; his entire body was shaking with tension, his head pushing back against the pillow as he struggled to hang on. The heat was burning through him and he felt like his veins were on fire, like his brain was melting.

His muscles were trembling and aching with exhaustion but still they kept twitching and spasming, making his whole body shake and tremble. He was beginning to feel light-headed, black edges crowding in at the back of his eyes and threatening to swallow him whole. His pulse was thundering in his ears and he was vaguely aware of a shrill noise echoing in counterpoint, getting faster and faster. He didn't know how much longer he could…

The next thing he was aware of was overwhelming exhaustion and a lingering ache in the centre of his chest; it felt like someone had punched him, hard. He felt utterly limp and wrung-out, every muscle in his body aching and sore. The feverish heat was gone though and he felt surprisingly okay… just really, really, _really_ tired. Did that mean it was over? Had the cure worked? He felt a hand on his shoulder and he really wanted to open his eyes and sit up and find out exactly what was happening but his body was feeling stubbornly uncooperative. Just trying to turn his head on the pillow required a huge effort and his voice came out as little more than a sigh as he breathed roughly, "How'd I do?"

He thought about opening his eyes but simply couldn't dredge up the required energy. The hand patted his shoulder reassuringly and Carson's voice, sounding oddly rough and breathless, told him, "You did fine, son."

His head felt incredibly heavy on the pillow and the exhausted lethargy of his body was rapidly turning into drowsiness. He wanted to stay awake, to find out what was happening with Keller, with the virus, but it seemed his body had other ideas. He was distantly aware of hands unfastening the restraints and gently rearranging his limbs; he felt oddly embarrassed at that but couldn't summon up the energy to protest.

Voices were murmuring somewhere and he could hear Carson's voice and Rodney's and maybe Ronon's but he couldn't pick out the words. Something was beeping nearby, a slow, regular beat, and he let the rhythm lull him into sleep.

The beeping was gone when he woke up. He surfaced slowly from dreams of deserts and earthquakes and lay for a moment without moving, just taking stock. He still ached comprehensively but the heavy lethargy was gone, as was the pulse-ox monitor on his finger. He wondered how long he'd been out. And what he'd missed… had Beckett's treatment worked?

He became aware of movement off to his left and he opened his eyes and lifted his head from the pillow, asking roughly, "What happened?"

It was McKay, pacing anxiously. "It worked," he answered tightly. "They just sent Ronon in to give her the shot."

He sat up abruptly, the generalised full-body ache sharpening painfully as stiff and aching muscles protested the movement. He took a moment, perched on the edge of the infirmary bed, and asked, "When?"

"He's just got there." He pushed himself to his feet as Rodney held out a radio earpiece. "Look, I'm tapped into the intercom."

He hooked the device around his ear and listened in as Ronon and Woolsey debated their options. He felt his stomach clench. He had a bad feeling about this. Ronon was still a good way from the isolation room and if what it did to Zelenka was any indication, as soon as that thing had any reason to perceive him as being a threat…

There was a hypo of Carson's cure on the table near the bed. He grabbed it and made sure it was properly loaded before stuffing it in his shirt pocket.

McKay was predictably freaked. "What are you doing?!"

"If I'm right, this is about to go very, very wrong." And they'd end up losing Ronon as well as Jennifer. Well, not if he could help it. There was only one way he could think of to get close enough to Keller without that thing attacking but it was risky as hell and he was the only one that realistically had even a chance of pulling it off.

"Yeah but.. you can't!" Rodney fretted. "We're quarantined!"

"I'm cured, remember?"

He left the infirmary at a run.

He was kinda surprised that Woolsey didn't immediately call him on the quarantine issue but he guessed the man had bigger issues to worry about right then. His brief conversation with the thing that was taking over Keller was enough to reassure him that Ronon was still alive, that there was still a chance of them all getting out of this, and it served as a distraction – both for the creature and for everyone else. He was pretty sure he wouldn't have gotten the jumper out of the bay if Woolsey had realised what he was planning, at least not without lengthy discussion and they _really_ didn't have time for that.

He wasn't surprised when the radio crackled to life before he'd even cleared the tower.

"Sheppard, what are you doing?"

"I'm taking a little shortcut," he explained briefly. "Sorry I didn't have time to fill out the paperwork."

The city whipped past beneath him, a blur of towers and spires, as he curved the jumper around and approached the outlying tower where they'd isolated Doctor Keller. Even from a distance he could see the vine-like growths that had spread and wrapped themselves around a large area of the outer walls.

"Okay, I see it now. That stuff is growing all over the place."

The jumper responded as much to his thoughts as to his hands on the controls and he had a clear idea in his mind of where he wanted to be; he trusted the complex system of sensors and navigation controls to aim him at exactly the right place, the right floor of the tower. The small craft sped up and he braced himself as he felt the engine pods retract.

"This may hurt…" He wasn't entirely sure who he was warning, himself, Woolsey or the jumper itself.

The impact of the jumper punching through the wall was stunning, throwing him forward against the console. He hung on as best he could as the little craft shuddered its way into the building, its momentum slewing it along the floor in a screech of grinding metal.

When it finally rattled to a halt, he was half surprised to find the ship, and himself, still in one piece. He pushed back from the console, feeling more than a little shaken, and let out a relieved huff of breath as he turned the pilot seat around. There was a dull throb of pain from his midriff as he pushed to his feet and he guessed he'd smacked into the console pretty good. Another bruise to add to his collection; he'd worry about it later.

Sparks were fizzling and popping from the jumper's damaged systems as he grabbed a 9mm from its protective case and quickly loaded it. It occurred to him distantly that, if they survived this, McKay was gonna be really pissed at him for trashing another jumper. He pulled the hypo from his pocket and held it and the gun ready as he palmed the rear hatch control.

The scene revealed was like something out of a horror movie. He could see a patch of bright sunny sky through the gaping hole the jumper had smashed through the outer wall. Inside the building everything was dark and musty, every surface smothered in the organic Wraith growth, twisting tendrils hanging from the walls and ceilings, coiling across the floors. The air felt moist and there was a familiar sour smell that he associated with Wraith ships.

He stepped out carefully into the path of destruction the jumper had ploughed through the tower, ducking around the tendrils that were already wrapping themselves around the intrusive foreign object. For the time being they seemed to be ignoring him and he did his damnedest to avoid treading on or brushing against anything or in any way seeming threatening as he crept further into the musty interior, heading for the isolation room.

He was relieved the find the doors to the isolation room open; from the look of it they'd been forced apart as the thickening ropes of Wraith growth had pushed and swelled their way out of the room. He'd had a niggling worry that he'd have to cut or shoot his way into the room, most likely with the same results that Ronon had experienced. He squeezed through the narrow gap between the doors, his skin crawling as the living tendrils pulsed and _squirmed_ as he pressed briefly against them. And then he was inside.

The room was dark, the city powered down except for certain key areas. The walls, ceiling and floor, the IV stand and monitors, every single surface in the room was covered in thick, fleshy growths, tendrils as thick as his wrist looping down from the ceiling and walls, coiling and twisting across the floor. Some of them slithered lazily as he moved gingerly into the room. In the centre of the floor, Dr Keller's bed was a solid block of Wraith growth, the nexus of the spreading infection that radiated outwards into the city. Jennifer was almost completely lost under the organic cocoon, only her face visible.

As he approached he could see that her eyes were closed. She looked young and innocent, relaxed as though she were simply asleep… except for the tracery of thin red lines that had spread vein-like up her cheeks and forehead. Moving slowly and carefully, expecting that at any moment the creature, the sentience that was using Jennifer's body and brain, would wake up recognise him as a threat, he reached out and pressed the hypo to her neck, holding it in place as a small hiss signalled the delivery of the drug.

For a tense moment nothing happened and he stepped back from the bed, a sick fear welling in his stomach that it had all been in vain, that the cure wouldn't work and she – they – couldn't be saved. And then all hell broke lose. Jennifer's eyes snapped open with a gasp, her head lifting from the pillow with a surge of tension. At the same moment, the entire room sprang to agitated life, the mass of tendrils beginning to writhe and thrash in fury, an ugly hissing, screaming sound filling the room. Thick coils slithered and roiled around his feet as he backed away from the bed, they lashed out from the walls to wave threateningly in the air. He backed up, gun in hand, looking around warily, unhappily aware that there was nowhere for him to go; he was surrounded.

There was nothing he could do to avoid the tendril that rose up from the floor and lashed out at him. It moved so quickly that he didn't even have time to aim his gun at it before searing pain ripped through his gut, doubling him over. He'd instinctively clutched at the damn thing as it had speared him and he could _feel_ it pulsing and squirming in his grip as his legs shook and his knees gave way, dropping him heavily to the floor.

He was amazed he'd somehow had the presence of mind to keep hold of his gun; the pain was incredible, whiting out conscious thought and leaving him breathless and stunned. The room was still writhing furiously, Wraith tendrils whipping angrily in the air, the spreading organism still very much alive and dangerous, and he had to accept that maybe this wasn't going to work. There was only one more thing he could do to try and save the city, to save his friends. He'd hoped it wouldn't come to this but the possibility had been there in the back of his mind when he'd brought the 9mm with him. Gritting his teeth and fighting the growing weakness in his limbs, he struggled to raise the gun and aim it at Jennifer. His arm shook and black spots were beginning to dance at the edges of his eyes but he took careful aim and… with a soft sigh, Jennifer's eyes closed and her head fell limply back again the pillow.

Instantly the roaring, hissing noise died away and all around the room the lashing tendrils abruptly sagged, drooping lifelessly as the Wraith organism shuddered and died. The pulsing, fleshy rope in his hand softened and went limp and he felt a sticky wetness against his skin as blood began to ooze around the edges of the thing where it had ripped through his flesh. He let his arm drop heavily, the gun slipping from nerveless fingers.

It was hard to breathe, the pain squeezing his chest like a vice, and moving was out of the question; he held himself stiffly, huddled on his knees, hunched awkwardly to one side, trying desperately to just not move, to just breathe. The pain was unceasing, a constant sharp agony that didn't let up for a second, didn't give him chance to even catch his breath. Oh god. He… Oh, this was bad. This was… really bad.

"Colonel Sheppard. What's your status?" Woolsey's voice crackled in his ear, his tone at once peremptory and fearful.

"Colonel Sheppard?"

It took him a moment to even get enough breath to try and answer. He tried to speak and all that came out was a wordless noise, pain tightening his throat and stealing his breath. He panted shallowly, each breath a separate torture, and managed to gasp out, "I've been better…"

"What happened?" Woolsey demanded anxiously.

His breathing was getting ragged and he could feel his heart racing in his chest. He didn't have time for explanations, he… he needed help. He could feel moisture welling in his eyes, the pain bringing him to tears. He tried to glance down at where he still clutched the damn tendril but even such a small movement brought a fresh wave of agony. He couldn't do this… he couldn't hang on much longer.

"You better come get us," he gritted tightly.

"Colonel?"

He was panting harshly now, struggling for control. "Please…" It was barely a whisper; he doubted the mic had even picked it up.

"Colonel Sheppard?" Carson's voice replaced Woolsey's and he could have cried with relief as his friend assured him, "Hold on, son. We'll be there right away."

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_TBC..._


	2. Chapter 2

_Missing scene tag fic to episode 5x02 - The Seed, exploring the lovely Shep whump in more detail! Medical stuff is based on my rough knowledge and what I can research on the internet so please forgive any inaccuracies. :) All comments and feedback, as ever, gratefully received._

_A/N: This fic is 3 chapters in total, with the 3rd chapter almost complete. Third and final chapter will be posted tomorrow._

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"_Destroy the seed of evil, or it will grow up to your ruin."_

They found Ronon first. With the power back up, they used the transporter and followed the path Ronon had cleared through the tangle of Wraith growth to find him lying face down on the floor. He was limp and boneless when they carefully rolled him over, the skin around his neck already reddened and beginning to bruise, but his pulse was steady and his pupils equal and reactive. Carson left Dr Igawa to supervise transferring Ronon to a stretcher and getting him to the infirmary; he and the rest of the team pushed on towards the isolation room.

He couldn't help but stop for a moment in stunned disbelief when the corridor they were following was abruptly transected by a swathe of destruction. He stepped out of what was left of the corridor into a large open space, littered with debris. The rather battered jumper was abandoned amidst the detritus of its own dramatic entrance, the rear hatch still open, the body of sturdy little craft half hidden in the Wraith tendrils wrapped thickly around it. They skirted around the jumper and followed a branching corridor that lead further into the tower.

The first thing he saw when they squeezed through the half-open doors into the isolation room was the solid cocoon-like mass that had been Jennifer's bed; the second thing was Colonel Sheppard kneeling stiffly amidst the coils of ropey growths that littered the floor. For a moment, he didn't realise quite what he was seeing; the thick tendril-like growths were everywhere, hanging from the walls and ceilings, spread out across the floor, and it wasn't until he'd had a moment to make sense of the chaos that he realised that the tapering length draped across the Colonel's legs hadn't simply wrapped itself around the Colonel but was… oh my god…

He hurried to the Colonel's side, quickly taking in his awkward posture, the ragged, shallow breathing and pale skin, sheened with sweat.

"Colonel Sheppard?" He knelt down beside him but the Colonel didn't speak, his chest rising and falling rapidly as he panted for breath, his face set and tense. The eyes that met Carson's were filled with pain and fear and said more than words ever could.

"Hang in there, John," he murmured, looking around for his team. They'd split up on entering the room, three of the EMTs accompanying him and the others following Dr Cole to check on Jennifer. He looked over at the group huddling around the cocooned bed, looking for some indication of the situation, and was reassured with a terse nod from Alison. Okay. Jennifer was alive. Alison would take good care of her; he needed to focus his attention on Colonel Sheppard.

"Okay, son," He turned back to the Colonel, laying a reassuring hand on his shoulder; he could feel the Colonel trembling minutely, the strain showing in his awkward posture. "Let me take a look at you, okay?" The Colonel gave a shaky huff of breath in assent and Carson quickly pressed his fingers to John's neck, noting the rapid pulse, before leaning in to take a closer look at what he was dealing with. Colonel Sheppard's hand was wrapped tightly around the tendril where it met his body; he couldn't see too much but it looked like the thing had hit him in the abdomen, impaling him through the left upper quadrant. Blood was smeared on the Colonel's hand and the black fabric of his shirt looked slick and wet around the impact site. He shuffled over on his knees and leant around to take a look at the Colonel's back, finding the tendril emerging from the left side, slightly higher up than the entrance wound.

The tendril tapered to a thin, bloodied point at that end behind the Colonel; when Carson turned back to the front and tried to follow where the other end went, he could only track it for a few feet before losing it in the mass of growth sprouting from around the bed. That immediately raised another problem; they were going to have to cut John free in order to be able to move him and treat him.

"Colonel? I'm just going to move your hand so I can get a better look, okay?"

Sheppard's response was immediate; he shook his head jerkily and gave a panicked grunt, clearly reluctant to be touched or moved. Carson could sympathise. It was clear that the Colonel was in a tremendous amount of pain. But the unwelcome fact was that they were going to have to move him… and doing so was going to hurt.

"I'm sorry, John," he apologised. "I know you're hurting and I'll try and be as quick as I can but I need to see what we're dealing with here and then we can get you sorted and get you something for the pain."

The Colonel's breathing was rapid and shallow, a sure sign of his discomfort, but at Carson's words he nodded a shaky assent and grimaced as he struggled to suck in a breath and brace himself. His tight grip around the tendril loosened jerkily and Carson kept his touch as gentle as possible as he carefully lifted the Colonel's trembling hand away from the injury. There was surprisingly little blood; just a slow seep from around the edges of the tendril. The thing had punched right through the Colonel's clothing, pushing the ragged edges of the fabric into the wound along with it. It was about 2 inches in diameter where it entered the abdomen and - he peered around to the back to check - maybe a little less where it exited. He used one hand to carefully pull the fabric away a little from around the wound, biting his lip at the way the Colonel's breathing hitched at his touch, and to very carefully and lightly probe the area, thankful not to find any immediate signs of distension or tenderness, other than that associated with the wound. He'd do a more thorough clinical exam once he had the Colonel lying down. And that had to be his next priority. For the moment the Colonel's condition seemed stable enough but he was in obvious need of pain relief and he urgently needed surgery to remove the penetrating object and repair whatever internal damage it had caused; damage which had the potential to be extremely serious.

"Okay, John." He sat back and placed a reassuring hand on the Colonels' shoulder. "You're going to be fine," he smiled. "A wee bit of surgery and we'll have you back on your feet in no time, okay?"

The Colonel nodded tightly, his attention still focused tightly on holding himself together. His face was damp with sweat, his skin unnaturally pale and Carson added shock to the list of symptoms; not at all surprising given the circumstances. He needed to get the Colonel to the infirmary as soon as possible – and that meant cutting him free of the mass of Wraith tendrils. The EMTs were hovering nearby, awaiting his decision on how to proceed, and Carson looked around to see Alison's team still clustered around Jennifer. He turned back to his patient.

"Just hold on for a moment longer, Colonel. We'll get you on a stretcher and get you some pain relief and get you out of here, okay?" he promised.

He pushed to his feet and turned to his team. "Clear some space on the floor and get the stretcher as close to the Colonel as possible," he instructed quietly. "We're going to need to cut him free of this thing and I want to get him on the stretcher as quickly and as carefully as possible. He's in a lot of pain and moving him isn't going to help that so speed is the name of the game here people."

They nodded efficiently, and set to carrying out his orders with quiet competence. They were good people, good doctors, many of them hand-picked by himself and Elizabeth (it was disconcerting to have to remind himself that that wasn't strictly true, that the man who had sat in a room at the SGC and read through resumes wasn't him; that those memories belonged to another man, to another Carson), and he knew that he could trust them to do their best for the Colonel.

He watched for a moment as they began to push the tangle of rope-like Wraith growths aside to clear a space beside the Colonel. "And be careful with those things," he warned anxiously. "Let's make sure we don't move or jar the Colonel in any way." The last thing John needed was for one tendril to tangle with another and end up moving or jarring that one that was he was impaled upon.

Satisfied that his team was being appropriately careful, Carson took a moment to move over to the cocooned bed and take a look at Jennifer. She was pale and still, only her face showing from under the mass of Wraith growth. Faint red lines marred the skin of her face, an oddly vein-like tracery creeping in from the edges, and her eyes were closed. He looked to Dr Cole for an update and Alison's smile was reassuring.

"She's actually quite stable, Carson," she reported. "Pulse is a little rapid but it's settling and her stats are pretty much returning to normal already." She looked down at the thick, fleshy mass covering the bed. "We'll keep her in isolation, obviously, until we can run tests and be certain the infection is neutralised, but for now I think the biggest challenge is going to be getting her out from under all this."

Carson nodded, prodding gently at the tangle of growth; it was tough and fibrous but still fleshy, giving slightly under the pressure of his touch. "It would all appear to be dead," he commented thoughtfully. "It should be a matter of just cutting it away from her."

Alison pursed her lips. "It's going to take a while though," she mused ruefully. She looked up from her contemplation to glance over his shoulder. "How's the Colonel?"

Carson grimaced. "He's going to need to be cut free too. I'll know more when I can examine him properly; he's stable for now but I won't know the full extent of the damage until I get him into surgery."

Alison nodded, her demeanour serious and professional, and it surprised him when she smiled suddenly, her expression a mixture of fondness tinged with a hint of melancholy. "It is good to have you back, Carson," she said warmly.

He felt a flush of warmth and found himself smiling back. It was odd to think that to these people, to his friends and colleagues, he'd been dead for over a year. He had to keep reminding himself that he was not the "real" Carson, not the Carson they had known. But he _felt_ real and the emotions he felt at being back in Atlantis, reunited with his friends and colleagues, felt very real.

"It's good to be back," he said simply.

"Dr Beckett."

He looked round at the call from his team; they were ready, the floor cleared and the stretcher laid out beside the Colonel. It was time. With a last smile for Alison, he moved back over to kneel carefully beside Colonel Sheppard. John's condition was unchanged, his skin still pale and clammy, his posture stiff, his breathing rapid. His face was tight, his lips pressed together as he struggled with the pain. He acknowledged Carson with a barely perceptible nod.

"Okay, John." Carson kept his voice calm and firm. "We're going to do this as quickly and carefully as possible, okay? Just hold on a little longer for me and it'll be over in a jiffy, I promise."

He was turning away when the Colonel drew in a ragged breath and spoke for the first time since Carson had arrived in the isolation room. His voice was cracked and raw, the words an obvious effort as he gritted out, "How… how's Keller?"

Carson's smile was rueful. Really, after all the time he – well, the real him, the man whose memories he had – had known the Colonel, it should no longer surprise him that despite his own very real pain, the man's first concern was still for the colleague he had tried so desperately to save. "She's going to be fine, John," he reassured. "In fact, right now, she's in a lot better shape than you are. So let's get you sorted, eh?"

"..kay.." It was barely a whisper, almost lost in the rapid, shallow pant of the Colonel's breathing.

Everyone moved into position according to Carson's instructions, two of his team taking up position on either side of Colonel Sheppard, ready to lower him to the stretcher as soon as he was cut free. The Colonel flinched as they each carefully took hold of one of his arms and held him steady. He was still holding himself rigidly but the increasing strain was evident in the tension of his jaw, the flush of sweat on his skin. His eyes were glazed, his attention focused inwards as he fought desperately for control.

"Okay everyone…" Choosing a section of the tendril that lay flat against the floor, a good couple of feet clear of the Colonel, Carson took a firm grip on it, holding it securely in place. With a flutter of nervous tension in his stomach, he laid his scalpel against the thick, fleshy rope and began to slice into it. The thing was tough and fibrous, resisting the sharp blade, and he was forced to progress slowly, making repeated strokes of the scalpel to progressively deepen the cut. He kept the knife strokes in one direction rather than in a sawing motion, hoping to avoid unnecessarily moving or jerking the vine. Nevertheless, the tug of the blade through the thick sinews vibrated the flesh under his hand and he knew that the Colonel felt it too, his breathing hitching desperately as he gritted his teeth against the fresh pain.

After a span of moments that felt more like hours, the blade finally sliced apart the last of the fibrous flesh, severing the tendril neatly in two.

"Alright, go!"

The team needed no more instruction than that, each of them well briefed on their appointed tasks. The EMTs holding Colonel Sheppard's arms tightened their grips and leaned him firmly to one side, smoothly taking his weight as they lowered him towards the waiting stretcher. He was stiff and uncooperative, his body remaining rigidly tense, and his face twisted agonisingly as they moved him, a strangled yelp of pain escaping him.

They moved him quickly and smoothly and within seconds he was lying on the stretcher, a couple of wadded up jackets used as improvised padding under his back, keeping him tilted as a slight angle to keep pressure off the tendril protruding from his back. He was breathing heavily, still shaking with tension, and if Carson had thought he looked pale before he was as white a sheet now.

"Okay, let's start an IV please," Carson ordered, moving rapidly to the Colonel's side, "and give him morphine, 5mg IM." He leaned over his patient and gave him a reassuring smile. "Nearly done, John," he promised. "We're going to give you something for the pain and then we'll get you to the infirmary and get you fixed up, okay?"

Pale and sweating, the Colonel grimaced and didn't answer. A nurse started cutting carefully through the neckline of his t-shirt in order to attach the cardiac monitor pads and, while his team prepped IV fluids and the requested pain meds, Carson took the chance to do a more thorough examination of the Colonel's abdomen. The circumstances weren't ideal as the Colonel wasn't lying entirely flat, but careful palpation revealed no obvious areas of concern and, although he was obviously in great pain, the Colonel wasn't showing any immediate indication of peritonitis, a minor miracle in itself given the nature of his injury.

"Alright, let's get some dressings packed around this." It was standard protocol to pack and immobilise a penetrating object though the circumstances were admittedly unusual… an object causing a penetrating injury was normally, by its very nature, rigid, whereas the Wraith tendril, now dead and severed from its roots, had softened somewhat and drooped rather limply from the wound. They were forced to lift up the protruding piece of tendril and hold it in place while they packed dressings around it and wrapped them securely into place, Colonel Sheppard groaning helplessly with every touch.

Carson knew the moment the morphine began to take effect; for the first time since they'd found him kneeling helplessly in the isolation room, Colonel Sheppard's rigid posture began to relax, tension bleeding from his muscles in a rush. His head sagged back on the stretcher, his eyelids drooping wearily, and he exhaled raggedly. "That's it, son." Carson patted his shoulder kindly, a knot of tension loosening in his stomach as he shared his friend's relief. He moved his hand aside as a nurse briskly lifted the Colonel's arms and laid them across his chest before strapping them in place. Further straps were tightened across his legs and ankles, the Colonel no longer resisting as he was manhandled, his limbs loose and relaxed, his head lolling woozily to one side. The severed tendril poked out from a bulky swatch of bandages, safely immobilised.

"Alright everyone. Let's get him to the infirmary. Gently as you can, please…" He pushed to his feet and stood back as the stretcher was carefully lifted. The Colonel gave a grunt at the motion, but it was muted, the pain not gone entirely but certainly well muffled by the morphine. Carson wanted to get him to the infirmary and prepped for surgery before the field dose began to wear off. He watched a little anxiously as the huddle of stretcher, patient and medics shuffled past him and headed for the door.

He let them go ahead of him, turning back one last time to the team surrounding Jennifer's bed. She was still unconscious, her breathing soft and even, and Alison reported that her vitals were looking good. It was going to take time to cut her free of the Wraith cocoon and, much as he might want to, Carson couldn't be in two places at once. Jennifer was stable; Colonel Sheppard needed him.

"Go," Dr Cole told him warmly. "She's going to be fine. You're needed elsewhere."

He nodded. "Right," he agreed reluctantly. He offered Alison a smile and walked away, slipping through the jammed open door into the tendril-choked corridor and breaking into a jog as he moved to catch up with Colonel Sheppard.

* * *

_TBC.._


	3. Chapter 3

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Missing scene tag fic to episode 5x02 - The Seed, exploring the lovely Shep whump in more detail! Medical stuff is based on my rough knowledge and what I can research on the internet so please forgive any inaccuracies. :) All comments and feedback, as ever, gratefully received.

_A/N: I wanted to write a little more on this and wrap things up a litte better but I am out of time. So I'm posting, as planned, and may just edit the ending a little later in the week._

* * *

"_Destroy the seed of evil, or it will grow up to your ruin."_

He woke up feeling oddly woozy and disconnected, as though the world were wrapped in cotton wool. He ached, but it was a distant, muffled ache, pushed back to the edges of his awareness. Sounds were blurry and distorted and it took him what felt like a long time to blink his eyes open.

"Hey! You're awake!" A face loomed over him, mouth split wide into a grin, and turned away to shout, "Carson! He's awake!"

He blinked drowsily.

The face came back and the grin faded, quickly becoming a frown. A hand waved from side to side in front of his nose and the face said, "Hello? Sheppard?"

Sheppard. That was his name. And the face's name was… Rodney. He felt slow and sleepy, his body heavy and lethargic. He frowned muzzily, trying to concentrate on the world, to bring it back into focus. Infirmary. He was in the infirmary and… he blinked blearily at himself… he was wearing a surgical gown. Not a good sign. Nor was the itch of sticky pads on his chest, the light grip of the clunky pulse-ox monitor on his finger or the distant ache of the IV in the back of his hand.

"I may have been optimistic with the awake part," Rodney was saying sourly. "The lights are on but nobody's home."

Another face leaned over him, smiling. "Give him time, Rodney," Carson said calmly, and asked him, "How are you feeling, John?"

He thought about that for a moment. "Tired," he tried to say, but his tongue felt thick and uncoordinated and it came out slurred, an unintelligible mumble.

Carson seemed to understand mumble-speak though. "That's only to be expected, son," he reassured. "You've body's been through a lot just recently and you're on some pretty heavy duty painkillers."

Oh. That explained the cotton wool. And the muffled ache in his chest and his belly and... he a sudden recollection of bright, burning pain in his gut and memory came flooding back; injections and restraints and convulsions and the crunch of the jumper grinding to a halt and vine-like Wraith growths lashing the air and Keller's eyes opening in shock…

He tensed, trying to lift his head and look around, and the generalised ache suddenly got a lot less muffled, dispelling some of the comfortable fog. "Hws Kellr?" he slurred roughly.

"Easy, John." Carson's hand were on his shoulders, pressing him back against the bed, holding him easily in place. "Jennifer's fine. In fact, she's in a lot better shape than you," he admonished, explaining, "She's in isolation. Just a precaution, until we're certain the infection has been neutralised."

"And Ronon?" The world was coming into sharper focus now, and the experience was not altogether pleasant. His voice was stronger, his words less mumbled, but the cushioning numbness was fading and what had been a subdued ache in his belly was turning rapidly into more of a burning pain.

"They're both going to be fine," Carson stated firmly. "Ronon's already been discharged and Jennifer is recovering well and should be out of isolation in a day or two." His warm smile turned a little rueful. "You, on the other hand, are going to be with us for a while longer than that."

He grimaced, tensing a little as the pain seemed to ratchet up a notch or two. "How bad is it?" he asked tiredly, not entirely sure he wanted to know.

"Well, you'll have a nice set of matching scars," Rodney interjected before Carson could answer. "Honestly, only you could manage to get himself impaled twice within the space of a month. D'you have any idea what are the statistical odds of that are?!"

McKay was hovering behind Carson, less than unobtrusively peering over his shoulder, and Carson's lips pressed together momentarily as, with exaggerated patience, he refrained from replying.

"You'll be out of action for a while I fear, Colonel," Carson smiled down at him, "but you should make a full recovery in time. Really, you were very lucky."

He grunted, trying to ignore the growing throb of pain. "Funny," he rasped, "I don't remember feeling particularly lucky at the time…"

Carson's lips twitched humorously. "Okay, perhaps not the best choice of words," he acknowledged, "but nonetheless, considering the nature of your injuries, the damage could have been much worse." He started listing off the damage John had done this time, starting with bruised ribs from the jumper crash and progressing through blood loss and a whole host of other complications that arose from having a living Wraith tentacle punch a hole through you.

He listened vaguely to Carson's explanation of several hours of surgery to remove the section of tendril, explore the wound tract and fix any damage. He was glad to hear that he'd somehow avoided damage to any of the major organs though he tuned out a little queasily when Carson starting talking about the tendril having "nicked" the large intestine and having to stitch it back together. It seemed the nature of the Wraith tendril itself had worked in his favour; whereas a bullet's high velocity would tear a hole through any organs in its path or a rigid object would cut a straight line through the abdomen, the sinewy, flexible tendril with its roundish, blunted end had punched through skin and muscle and kind of slid through his insides, pushing organs aside instead of ripping through them. Thought, to be honest, Carson's rather vivid description didn't make him feel much better about being shish-kabobed.

He listened lethargically to Carson's explanation of his immediate prognosis – good, though he was looking at being off his feet for at least another week or so and probably another couple of weeks on top of that before he would be cleared for active duty – and tried to ignore the growing pain in his gut. He still felt tired and more than a little woozy and all this conversation, one-sided though it had been, had quickly exhausted him. By the time Carson finished up his explanation, the words were starting to blur into each other as John struggled to keep his eyes open.

"Well I think that's enough talking for now," Carson pronounced perceptively. He patted John's shoulder reassuringly, a move that reminded John uncomfortably of restraints and a nervous wait for unspecified adverse reaction, and suggested, "We'd best leave you to get some rest."

"What do you mean rest?" Rodney argued, "He's only just woken up!"

"He's had major surgery, Rodney!" Carson pointed out incredulously. "And he's on strong painkillers. He's going to be doing a lot of sleeping over the next few days."

There was nothing John would like more than to slip back into the deep, dreamless sleep from which he had awoken but the pain in his gut was uncomfortable, keeping him awake, leaving him blinking drowsily, and he couldn't help a grimace of annoyance.

Carson leaned over the bed and the shrewd look in his eyes made it clear that he hadn't missed John's discomfort. "How's the pain, son?" he asked calmly.

He swallowed. "Uncomfortable," he admitted roughly.

Carson nodded. "Okay. I'll get you something to take the edge off and let you sleep."

As soon as Carson left, Rodney plopped himself heavily into a chair pulled up beside the bed, a disgruntled look on his face. The datapad he snagged from atop the nearby cabinet suggested that he'd been in that same chair since before John woke up. John rolled his head tiredly on the pillow to watch as McKay settled himself into the chair with the air of someone expecting a long wait and began to poke apparently randomly at the datapad screen.

"You gonna stay there all night?" he asked mildly.

"It's nearly morning," Rodney replied without looking up.

"Oh." It had been daylight when John had slammed the jumper into the tower; he remembered that. It was hard to tell the time in the infirmary but the lowered lights suggested it was evening time. He'd thought a few hours had passed since the isolation room. How long had he been asleep anyway?

"You were in surgery for about five hours," Rodney answered his unspoken question, "and sleeping off the anaesthetic for about another four."

"Oh." The pain pulled uncomfortably at his stomach and he gave a grunt and breathed heavily through his nose for a moment.

When he sighed and let the tension in his shoulders relax, Rodney was looking up from the datapad, watching him seriously.

"Really," John mumbled sleepily, "you don't have to stay."

"I'm good." Rodney turned back to the datapad with a dismissive huff. "Someone's got to make sure you don't do something else stupid and get yourself impaled a third time - at least until you get the stitches out from the latest surgery." He glanced up and grimaced in apparent disgust at John's tired grin.

"Teyla's taking the morning shift," he added, "seeing as Torren apparently wakes her up at the crack of dawn anyway."

"Hey," a thought belatedly occurred to John. "Are you guys okay? I mean, the cure n'all…" His brain was still struggling to catch up with all that had happened in the last several hours.

"Yes, I've had the cure. We all have." McKay's mouth twisted in distaste. "Not an experience I care to repeat." John remembered the disconcerting sensation of feeling his body moving without his control, jerking and twitching, muscles clenching and shaking, and he swallowed thickly. Yeah. Not one of the most fun things he'd ever done.

"Here you go…" Carson reappeared with a syringe in hand and calmly injected the contents into John's IV. A moment later the burning in his gut eased, fading rapidly to a distant, numb ache, and the cotton wool came back with a vengeance, clouding his thoughts and making his eyelids inexpressibly heavy. He let them drift closed as Carson instructed, "Now get some sleep, son."

When he woke up it was Teyla who smiled at him from the chair beside the bed.

"John. It is good to see you awake. How are you feeling?" She was bouncing Torren gently in her arms and the blanket-wrapped baby gurgled happily. John blinked and licked his lips. He felt a little more awake than before, but no more rested. Everything still ached distantly and he felt physically weary, like he'd been on a 10 mile run.

"M'good," he mumbled.

Teyla's lifted eyebrow openly expressed her scepticism and her smile quirked a little.

He looked around woozily. The infirmary was brightly lit and buzzing with the activity of the daytime shift. "What time is it?" he asked.

"Nearly lunchtime." Teyla's expression was serene, a gentle smile still curving her lips as she gazed down at her baby.

John frowned. "Have you been here all morning?"

She looked up calmly. "No. Rodney has sat with you when I have needed to feed Torren." The baby snuffled and she smiled down at him, rocking him gently.

John blinked a few times, trying to wake himself up a little, but he still felt ridiculously sleepy, his body feeling heavy and lethargic. He rolled his head on the pillow enough to see that the gown, cardiac monitor, pulse-ox monitor and IV were all still in place, the assembled monitors beeping and scrolling quietly in the background.

He sighed. "You guys don't have to do this, you know," he said.

"I know," Teyla agreed serenely.

"It can't be much fun watching me sleep," he commented wryly.

She smiled at this, lifting her eyes to meet his. "But it is nice to see you awake," she argued, "and for you to have company when you do awake. Besides," she shifted the precious bundle in her arms, settling the baby more comfortably against her chest, and resumed the gentle bouncing motion, "you are in luck. Today Torren wants to sit and be rocked for hours on end and is quite vocal about his displeasure if I do not do what he wants. He sleeps almost as much as you," she laughed, her eyes sparkling, "but he makes a lot more noise when he wakes up."

John smiled tiredly. His eyelids were already growing heavy and he was struggling to keep them open. This was ridiculous. He'd barely been awake for five minutes. He scrunched up his eyes and blinked a few times rapidly, trying to wake himself up. It didn't work.

"John." Teyla was regarding him calmly, her expression one of warmth and affection. "Your body needs rest; you should not fight it." She smiled. "Go to sleep, John. We will be here when you awake."

Much as he might want to, he couldn't stop his eyes from closing. He drifted back to sleep to the accompaniment of the beeping of monitors and Teyla humming softly to her child.

He woke up again what felt like five minutes later to find McKay at his bedside, once again absorbed in his datapad. This time he managed a whole fifteen minutes of wakefulness, in which McKay informed him that it was actually mid-afternoon and that watching him sleep for three hours was boring, and in which Carson showed up and pronounced it time for a wound check. This procedure, for the duration of which McKay was thankfully banished, involved moving blankets and infirmary gown aside to expose a nice big dressing taped to his left side, a dressing which Carson proceeded to carefully peel away, revealing a painful-looking mess of bruised flesh, neat stitching and ugly scabbing. It also, unfortunately, involved rolling John onto his side to peel off a matching dressing on his back, the results of which John wasn't able to see, and applying fresh dressings to both wounds.

The mere act of rolling onto his side, even when most of the work was done by Carson, pulled at places that didn't want to be pulled and woke the numb ache up into growling pain. By the time he was settled back on the mattress with the gown and blankets rearranged, he was tense and sweating, feeling distinctly uncomfortable, and was more than grateful for the dose of painkillers Carson added to his IV, allowing him to escape back into the numbness of sleep.

Sometime later he half-surfaced out of jumbled dreams to hear voices talking nearby. The chair beside the bed was empty and he thought he heard Woolsey's voice asking, "How is he?" Sleep pulled him back under before he could hear the answer.

When he next awoke it was morning and his head felt a lot clearer. The pain in his belly was manageable, if not entirely numb, and he could keep his eyes open for more than five minutes at a time. Teyla was occupying the chair, this time without Torren, and as they talked quietly Carson came over and asked him if he felt up to trying some breakfast and he was surprised to find that he did. Less surprising, given that he had been laying about in bed for over a day, was the fact that his stomach wasn't the only organ making its needs felt.

"Um… yeah," he told Carson, "I am kinda hungry…" He trailed off, feeling oddly uncomfortable about broaching the other subject with Teyla present.

She was quick to pick up on his discomfort and rose to her feet with a smile. "I will go and fetch John some breakfast from the mess hall," she volunteered, and the amused glance she threw his way left John in no doubt that she knew exactly why he was uncomfortable and was staging a diplomatic exit for his benefit. Carson took a moment to give Teyla a whole list of instructions on what John could and could not have for breakfast, the general gist of which seemed to be nothing that tasted nice, and she left, a smile still quirking her lips.

"Uh hey, Doc," John broached the subject somewhat awkwardly. "I could, uh... I could use a trip to the little Colonel's room…"

He was rather gloomily expecting to be presented with a urinal but instead Carson nodded. "Okay," he agreed reasonably. "I was planning to try getting you up on your feet today and I suppose now is as good a time as any."

"Really?" John was surprised and pleased. He hated those damn urinals, though not as much as he hated catheters. Then he remembered that he was wearing an infirmary gown, and much as he liked the idea of being able to go to the bathroom on his own, he was far less keen on the idea of showing his behind to the entire infirmary on the way there. He grimaced a little and decided to push his luck. "Um. Any chance of getting some scrubs first?" he ventured. "I don't really need to be in a gown anymore, do I?"

Carson frowned, already looking reluctant. "You still need daily wound checks, John," he argued, "front and back…"

"Yeah but you can lift a scrubs top as easily as a gown," John counted persuasively, "and I'd be a _lot_ more comfortable in scrubs. _Please_, Carson?

Carson pursued his lips. "Okay," he relented, "I'll get you some scrubs. I'll be back in a moment."

In the end it took Carson and a male nurse to help him get into the scrubs and by the time they were done John was almost regretting asking for them. Lying in an infirmary bed had stiffened muscles already aching from a combination of convulsions and blunt force trauma from the jumper crash, and just moving about turned out to be a mammoth task that left him pale and sweating. It took the two of them to get him sat upright and lifting his arms to put on the scrubs top pulled painfully at his stitches. His limbs felt ridiculously weak and shaky and Carson had to help hold his arms up while the orderly slipped the sleeves over his hands. The pants were a little easier; Carson slipped them over his feet and pulled them up as far as he could but lifting his hips to slide them the rest of the way was painful again and required the help of both Carson and the orderly. By the time they were done John was breathing heavily and starting to seriously reconsider the prospect of walking to the bathroom… or in fact doing anything other than just laying right here and moving as little as possible.

"Okay, Colonel," Carson's tone brooked no resistance. "Time for a walk."

If sitting up had been bad, getting off the bed was torture. He moved slowly and stiffly, aching muscles protesting, trying to favour his left side and not pull at the tender, stitched-up holes in his belly. Of course, the fact that he had holes front and back made this nearly impossible; if he hunched forward to favour his front, the movement pulled at the wound on his back and vice versa. He gritted his teeth as Carson swung his legs around and he slowly, painfully, inched himself forwards until he was perched on the edge of the bed.

"Just gimme a minute," he gasped to Carson and the hovering orderly.

"Take your time, John," Carson told him calmly. "You're doing fine."

He nodded, trying to slow his breathing. It took both of them to get him off the bed. When he felt ready, they stood on either side of him and took an arm each across their shoulders and John scooted himself forward until his feet hit the floor. For a second his legs wouldn't hold him and they braced themselves, bearing his weight until he got his feet under him. They just stood for a long moment, letting him catch his breath, and then, when he felt steadier, they nudged him forwards, Carson using one hand to hold John's arm around his shoulder and the other to manoeuvre the wheeled IV stand along with them.

It was slow and painful progress. John could only manage a slow shuffle, like an arthritic old man, and the effort left him sweating and shaking. It seemed to take forever to reach the bathroom and then there was the issue of what to do when they got there. John was adamant that he was going in there alone; he had put himself through this agony for the privilege of being able to take a pee in private and he wasn't about to give up on that. Carson expressed concern about John's condition and whether he could manage on his own. In they end they compromised; his escorts walked him into the bathroom and as far as the head and hovered anxiously as he unwrapped his arms from their shoulders and grabbed hold of the wall for support. Reluctantly satisfied that he could hold himself upright, they retreated to outside the unlocked door, with instructions to shout if he needed help and dire warnings that if they didn't hear from him in five minutes, they were coming in anyway.

By the time he called them back into the room, John was feeling decidedly shaky but figured it was well worth it. He'd even managed, with the help of the wall and the IV stand, to totter as far as the basin to wash his hands, though Carson naturally scolded him for doing so and the slow shuffle back to the bed was accompanied by a lecture on the damage he could have done if he'd fallen.

Getting back into bed was, if anything, worse than getting out of it and when Teyla arrived with breakfast, John was laying back against the raised mattress, feeling flushed and achy and not remotely hungry. He pulled a face when she presented him with a bowl of thin porridge. The raised eyebrow she gave him forestalled the protest he'd been about to make and he made a show of at least trying it but managed no more than a couple of spoonfuls before admitting defeat. He was exhausted, his appetite gone and his side aching ferociously.

Carson looked disappointed but not entirely surprised by his dismal attempt at breakfast. He looked John over shrewdly and mentioned that it was time for his next dose of painkillers. John drifted off to sleep half way through a conversation with Teyla.

When he next awoke the chair was empty. He rubbed at his eyes, still feeling a little groggy with sleep but, he was pleased to note, without the foggy-headedness of the previous day. He guessed Carson must be scaling back on the painkillers which suited him fine; not that he was a fan of being in pain but he hated the woozy, muffled feeling that came with the heavy duty meds. They left him feeling wiped out and unable to think straight. He'd put up with a little discomfort in exchange for having a clear head.

From the look of the lighting, he guessed it was maybe late morning, early afternoon, a suspicion confirmed when Carson came over with a smile and asked him how he was feeling and if he felt up to some lunch. They went through the rigmarole of wound checks once again, slightly less uncomfortable than the day before but still leaving him tired and aching, and Carson explained the empty chair; Woolsey had called a staff meeting to debrief on the events of the last few days.

Left alone to await the arrival of an unappetising lunch, John was expecting Rodney or Teyla or even Ronon to put in an appearance once the meeting was through. Instead, he got Woolsey himself.

"Colonel Sheppard," he greeted, as formal as ever. "How are you feeling?"

John made the usual polite noises about doing okay, considering.

"Hmm. Carson tells me that you are recovering well." Woolsey seemed uncomfortable, more so than usual, and John wondered if it was just a dislike of hospitals or something more. He frowned.

"What our status?" he asked. "Has everyone been given the cure?"

Woolsey nodded briskly. "Everyone who was exposed to the pathogen has been successfully treated. Not a pleasant experience, I understand, but everyone came through it okay."

A knot of tension eased in John's stomach at hearing that.

"And Doctor Keller is doing very well. No further sign of infection and the remaining Wraith growths have been successfully removed."

John nodded. "How's Ronon?" he asked. He was a little surprised not to have seen the big guy in the infirmary over the last day and more.

"He has a bruised larynx," Woolsey explained. "Apparently he won't be able to speak for several days."

John thought about that for a moment. "Wonder if anyone will notice the difference," he commented.

* * *

_Fin._


End file.
